


Absolution

by velithya



Category: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: F/F, M/M, he's not dead goddammit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-07
Updated: 2012-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-07 03:47:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/426602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velithya/pseuds/velithya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And the Goddess said: 'l'Cie who rest upon Cocoon will reawaken, however long they may wait. And Ragnarok will rise again, to tear the land from its seat in the sky.' Her word is absolute.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Absolution

**Author's Note:**

> To be fair: **THIS IS A WIP**. I haven't written anything on this since July 2010 and I can't promise how quick the rest of this will be, especially given my fanfic track record. *cough*
> 
> Originally posted at my journal on 31st December 2010.

**Absolution**  
Part 1

_And the Goddess said: 'l'Cie who rest upon  
Cocoon will reawaken, however long they may  
wait. And Ragnarok will rise again, to tear  
the land from its seat in the sky.'_

_Her word is absolute._

    --Cie'th stone on the outskirts of Oerba, Gran Pulse.

 

He's alive.

He's can't remember why that's surprising, but then he's having enough trouble just breathing right now, concentrating on pulling in one breath after another, steady flares of pain spreading from his midsection with each inhale. He's not sure whether it's good or bad that he can't really feel his legs, and one of his arms is currently completely numb, but in a way that suggests that if he so much as twitches, the pain he's in now will be nothing compared to what he'll experience then.

He turns his head to try and assess the damage-

***

This time, when he blinks back to consciousness, memory of excruciating pain still all too real, throbbing behind his eyes, he's careful not to move at all.

He settles for cracking an eye open, holding his breath in case he needs it to scream, but his body doesn't mind that, apparently, although it takes the other eye opening and several more blinks before he can make the world come into something resembling focus.

He's - sideways, on the ground, and through the hovering motes of crystal he can see the smouldering wreckage of the _Proudclad_ , barely recognisable. He remembers-

He squeezes his eyes closed, head throbbing in warning, breathing turning ragged. The Purge had put blood on his hands, was slaughter, for sure, but it had been - impersonal. Distanced. Watching the citizens he was sworn to protect cut down by Pulse monsters-

He loses time.

When he comes back to himself, it's a little darker, although the crystal motes in the air are thicker, and they catch the remaining light. His face feels wet, the ache in his head worse, and although he doesn't dare move a limb to check after last time, he's pretty sure he has a head wound in addition to everything else, that it's blood across his forehead and down one cheek. Small mercy, at least, that it's not running into his eyes; he's having enough trouble focussing already.

It's silent, around him, and he wonders if anyone else is alive; his soldiers here are all turned to Cie'th, and he can't hear any screams from civilians or noises from the invading Pulse creatures. He is likely alone - nobody left but the dead, and the dying. Perhaps the fal'Cie had won after all.

He realises his eyes have slipped closed, and forces them open. The motes in the air swirl in his vision, dizzying, and after a few moments he has to squeeze his eyes closed again, nausea building in the pit of his stomach. Despite the fact that he's already helpless on the ground, unable to move for pain and unconsciousness, with his eyes closed he feels even more helpless.

He can feel himself starting to drift again, and doesn't fight too hard to stay grounded. This was the end that he'd chosen, after all-

"Hey-" someone says, and he startles, the motion tearing a sharp breath from him as pain flares through his chest.

He forces his eyes open as a dark shape crouches in front of him - he makes out dark hair, blue shoulder guards - "Cavalry," he croaks out, before his eyes slip closed of their own accord.

"Didn't expect anyone else to be alive," the Cavalry soldier says, and maybe he should be paying more attention to his tone, something important there, but he really has other things to worry about, like how it's suddenly a lot more difficult to breathe.

He doesn't bother replying, too busy gasping for air, each heave of his chest a fresh burst of pain, and he can taste blood in the back of his throat.

"Shit," the soldier says, and over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears he can hear rustling, something clinking. "Shit," the soldier says again, and then he flinches away as a gloved hand touches his face. "Drink this."

The soldier trickles liquid onto his tongue, and he tries to swallow without choking through his attempts to breathe. He manages one, then another, and then all of a sudden a feeling like warmth floods over him, from the centre of his chest outwards. Just like that, it's gone, but so is the struggle for air - he's still gasping, and it still hurts, but he can breathe.

"What was that?" he rasps. He can still taste blood in his mouth.

"Phoenix Down," the soldier says, and pulls his hand back. "You, uh. Can you move your legs?"

He opens his eyes again, and this time the soldier's face comes nearly into focus - blurry and sideways, but there.

"Your legs," the soldier repeats, and he scowls.

"Impatient," he says, and shifts his legs before he can think about it. "Hngh-!" He closes his mouth before anything else can escape - one leg seems fine, but the other is- not. The other man is a soldier, yes, but not one of his, not PSICOM - he's Cavalry, and an hour ago they were at war.

"Shit," the soldier says, and lifts empty hands. "I took my last potion ten minutes ago."

When he's sure nothing but words will escape him, he opens his mouth. "Manadrive," he rasps, takes a breath, and closes it again. On the one hand, he can feel his legs now. On the other, he kind of wishes he didn't. At least the pain is subsiding, slowly, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

"Smashed by one of those... things," the soldier says, evidently deciding any kind of real description is too hard, or perhaps inadequate. "Don't have a spare. Yours?"

"On my belt," he says, and tilts his head down. "Right side."

The soldier has no hesitation - he leans in, careful not to bump into him, fingers delicately worming beneath his side in an effort to locate the manadrive. He remembers clipping it on earlier, second nature to arm up even with the protection the _Proudclad_ afforded.

The soldier pauses in his search, says, "Brace yourself-" and pulls. There's a sharp pain in his lower back, and then the soldier draws back, opening his hand in his field of vision. The manadrive lies in his palm - well, half of it, anyway. The ends break off into jagged metal, and it's smeared the soldier's glove with blood. "Don't think it's going to be any help," the soldier says, and tosses it away. "Might leave a scar though."

He leans his head back against the ground. No potion, no manadrive, and despite the Phoenix Down, still with extensive injuries. He needs to get out of here, out of this fal'Cie death trap that slaughtered his men, and back to somewhere with help.

"Alright," he says, and focuses again on the soldier. "You-" He pauses, finally recognising the face in front of him. "Captain Rygdea."

Rygdea gives a single nod. "Yeah," he says. His eyes track down his body, and then back up again. "I can try splinting your leg with your sabre, Director Rosch."

"Do it," he says immediately. It's a good idea, and he has to be mobile, and soon - the l'Cie went to Orphan, and who knows what will happen at the end of that fight.

Rygdea is already unbuckling the thick belt that criss-crosses around his waist. "Can you lift your hips a little?" he says, and Rosch braces with his good leg, getting just enough off the ground for Rygdea to slide the belt free. He shifts down, unhooking the sabre from the belt and laying it alongside Rosch's leg. He pauses, hands hovering over the limb, and then glances back at Rosch's face. "This is going to hurt," he says.

Rosch gives a short nod, and takes a deep breath, bracing himself.

Rygdea does something, and a spike of pain floods upwards from his leg. For a moment he can't breathe, has no breath at all, not even to scream, and then Rygdea does something else, worse, and it's all he can do to keep his mouth closed. He can feel bones grating against each other, and the world goes hazy around him. He can feel the agony from his leg, and hear his breath, rasping in and out in short pants, but everything else is muffled, distant. He fights to keep awake - it's a miracle that he's not in shock already, although that's probably due to the Phoenix Down, and he doesn't want to still be here when it wears off.

Rygdea says something, voice eclipsed by the roar of his breath in his ears, and then the pain starts easing, bit by bit. Gradually the world comes back to him, and he opens his eyes to find Rygdea hovering over him, much closer than he had before. "Rosch?"

He manages a nod, swallowing. His throat feels raw, and through the pulses of hurt from his leg he can feel the line of his sabre and the straps of his belt, keeping it straight and supported.

"Can you sit?" Rygdea asks, and before Rosch can answer worms a hand under his shoulders. "Ready."

Rosch lifts his good arm, grasping the straps on Rygdea's chest, and then pulls, inching himself upright. When he's fairly stable Rygdea drops his arm away.

"Any other injuries?" Rygdea asks. "Or should I find us some transportation?"

Rosch shifts his other arm and bites back a curse. "My arm will need to be strapped," he says. "If you can get the back here-" he gestures up over his shoulder with his good arm, and Rygdea's hands find the clasp at the back that hooks his pauldrons together and unhook it. Rosch snaps the buckle open one-handed and pulls on the strap, and the pauldron falls into his lap. "I can do the rest," he says. "If you can get the transport-"

Rygdea nods, shifting backwards and picking up a Cavalry-issue automatic rifle as long as his arm. "Be back soon," he says, and stands, before turning back and glancing critically around where Rosch is sitting. "Do you have a weapon?"

His sabre is currently holding his leg together, and he has no idea where his gun ended up. "No," he admits.

Rygdea pulls a smaller handgun from his belt and hands it over, grip first. "Don't die," he says with a wry grin, and heads off, crossing the small plaza and disappearing down the stairs out of Rosch's field of vision.

He checks the weapon out of habit, but it's well maintained with a full clip loaded. He chambers a round and thumbs on the safety before setting it aside - he needs to have his arm strapped before Rygdea returns with their transport.

Fitting his elbow into the corner of the pauldron is the easy part. He can't duck his head enough to get the looped belt around his neck without too much pain, so he ends up slinging the strap, loose, around his neck and buckling it afterwards, elbow hitched up as high as he can and shoulder throbbing.

Once it's done, though, his arm is much more secure, elbow tight against his side. He loops his fingers through the remaining strap on his chest, keeping his arm as still as he can, and waits.

After a few minutes his attention starts wandering, eyes drifting away from the plaza and beyond. He catches himself several times just staring aimlessly at the crystal motes hovering in the air, each time jerking his gaze back to the stairs where Rygdea - or any possible enemy - might appear.

Aside from general details about the Cavalry, he doesn't know the specifics of their capabilities, what to expect from Rygdea. He doesn't know how long is too long.

And that's the worst part of it, that he's helpless here, broken and bleeding on the ground. He doubts he can stand without help, or even crawl by himself, two limbs out of commission. If something happens to Rygdea, he could wait here forever.

A low growl in the distance startles him out of his thoughts, and he jerks his head up from where he was staring at his leg. The motes in the air are blurred again, and he blinks and blinks to try and clear his vision. If something is coming, he can't miss - has to make every shot count.

He puts his hand on the gun, curling his fingers around the grip, and thumbs off the safety.

The growl sounds again, closer and more constant. It doesn't sound like any of the hell creatures from Pulse he's encountered so far, but all that means is that he has no specific idea of how to kill it, beyond 'shoot it and see what happens'.

It comes closer still, and he raises the gun, aiming clear at the top of the stairs, and tries to ignore the fact that his arm is shaking.

The hover bike comes sweeping over the crest a moment later, Rygdea fighting with the controls as it scrapes a wide arc across the plaza and rumbles to a halt near where Rosch is crumpled. He drops his hand back into his lap, thumbing the safety back on, and carefully uncurls his fingers from the grip. They're still shaking, and he clenches his hand into a fist. That's not a good sign.

"Sorry I took so long," Rygdea is saying as he swings out of the driver's seat. "I had to check the engine. You would have heard the noise it was making."

Rosch nods, unclenching his hand to pick up the gun, barrel first, and offer it back to Rygdea.

"Thanks," Rygdea says, and tucks it away. "All right, you ready?"

Rosch grimaces. "No," he says, and holds his good arm.

Rygdea gives a wry smile, clasping his wrist firmly with one hand and taking a good hold of his remaining belt at the small of his back with the other.

Rosch pulls his good leg up a little, gets his foot flat on the ground, and takes a deep breath.

It hurts.

Rygdea provides most of the upward force, which is good because halfway through most of Rosch's strength gives out. When he comes back to himself, pain starting to ease, he's upright, Rygdea bracing most of his weight.

"Come on," Rygdea is saying. "We're nearly there, Rosch, come on."

"Still here," he rasps out, and feels Rygdea give a relieved-sounding sigh.

"Five feet to the bike," Rygdea says.

Rosch opens his eyes and straightens up, taking more of his weight on his good leg. He's a good head taller than Rygdea, and he'd been awkwardly crumpled over his head and shoulder. As soon as he stands more by himself, Rygdea moves, taking his good arm across his shoulders and putting an arm tight around his waist, taking hold again of his belt.

"Ready," he says.

Rosch swallows, takes a breath, and leans hard on Rygdea, hopping forward an awkward step.

"That's it," Rygdea says encouragingly, moving forward with him, and doesn't protest when Rosch takes a moment to breathe and wait for the new spike of pain to subside.

It's only five feet to the bike, but it takes him a long time. He's shaking by the time they reach it, and he's pretty sure it's not just from exhaustion. Rygdea has to help him lower onto the seat, and carefully lifts his splinted leg into the bike once he's stable.

"Are you going into shock?" he asks, and Rosch opens eyes he hadn't, again, realised had fallen closed. Rygdea's face is blurring again, and he has to concentrate for long moments until everything slides into focus.

"Probably," he admits. "You had better strap me on."

Rygdea gives a short nod, concern written all over his face, and fastens the belts across at his shoulder and waist, tugging to make sure they're secure. Rosch blinks, and then Rygdea is sitting in front of him on the bike, the engine starting up again with that growling noise.

Rygdea glances over his shoulder and catches Rosch's eye. "Try and stay conscious," he says, and then the bike is shuddering forward. The tilt as it goes down the stairs is dizzying, and Rosch has to close his eyes again. Whatever's wrong with the engine must involve the bike not being able to get very high off the ground.

He tried to focus on the engine noise, the occasional scrapes of the bike against whatever they're riding over, but it starts to blur together. He doesn't know when he fades out, but suddenly he's shaking, too cold, and Rygdea's voice is loud in his ears over the noise of the bike.

"Come on, Rosch. Dammit, don't you die on me. Not you too."

He can't open his eyes, too much effort, but he hitches his good arm closer to him, trying to keep warm. "'m here," he slurs out, and hears Rygdea's breath stutter out in relief.

"'m cold," he adds, because he's pretty sure he's either been hit with a Blizzard or he's definitely in shock, and either way Rygdea should probably know what's going on.

"Dammit," Rygdea hisses, and then there's some kind of noise he can't identify, and a bare hand touches his face. It feels hot against his skin, and even incapacitated as he is, Rosch knows that's not a good sign.

"Dammit," Rygdea mutters again, and then his fingers are on his eye, prying his eyelid open.

It's bright, and he can't focus properly, Rygdea's face a smear of brown amongst crystal white. He flinches back and Rygdea lets him, the glare fading in the darkness behind his eyelids.

He can hear Rygdea breathing, a little unsteady, and Rosch swallows, musters his strength, and opens his mouth. "Talk while you drive," he says. "Something to focus on," before he has to concentrate on breathing again.

"Okay," Rygdea says, and there's that rustle again, a creak of leather, and Rosch feels the bike lurch forward again underneath him. "I can do that."

There's a moment of silence, and then Rygdea clears his throat. "This feels awkward. Okay, uh. So this one time, right after I was stationed with the Cavalry-"

It's hard, but he does his best to stay awake, pay attention, if not to the words, to Rygdea's voice. He's still cold, and every so often his body shakes involuntarily, little spikes of pain from his shoulder, his leg, his head that for brief moments make it easier to concentrate. He's sure he's losing time, moments shifting and blurring into each other, but through it all, Rygdea's voice keeps him tethered.

"-And that PSICOM division never bothered us again," Rygdea says, and he sounds kind of hoarse now over the constant rumble of the bike. He wonders how long he's been talking for. "Rosch? You still with me?"

"'m here," Rosch rasps.

"Good," Rygdea says, and Rosch thinks that's relief in his tone, although he can't be sure with all the noise in his head. "We're getting closer." There's a moment's pause, and then Rygdea launches into another story, something about the _Palamecia_. Rosch loses track of the story again almost immediately, clinging to the sound of the words to keep him conscious. He'd made up his mind, coughing blood on the plaza next to the ruin of the _Proudclad_ , chosen his end - and now he's decided again.

This time he's choosing to live.

***

"And then Joshua said to me, 'Ryg? Not if you were the last person on Cocoon,'" Rygdea says, and then stops talking, bike shuddering just a little more than normal.

Rosch swallows, opens his mouth. "You 'kay?" he asks.

Rygdea snorts. "You're the one in shock on the back of the bike, what do you think?" he shoots back, and then there's a pause. "Josh was in my strike team today," he says, voice shot, and Rosch thinks back to the fate of his own men, and the smooth white Cie'th he'd encountered as he'd battled to Eden trying to get ahead of the l'Cie, the ones who'd been people he knew, men under his command.

"I-" he says, but talking is an effort, and he breaks off for more air, breathing ragged.

"Don't kill yourself," Rygdea says, but he can't quite manage the light tone he's after, voice still shaking.

"I also," Rosch says, stopping to breathe every few words. "Lost men. Today."

"Josh was my friend," Rygdea says. "And I had to-" he breaks off, but Rosch's mind is already replaying what he'd seen, had to do, and it was all too easy to replace him with Rygdea, without the protection of the _Proudclad_ , having to fight through what was left of his own men, just to stay alive.

There's nothing anyone can say to make him feel better, nothing anyone can say to wash the blood from his hands. Rygdea is a commander of men - he must feel the same way. Nothing Rosch can offer, no platitudes, will help.

"I'm here," he says instead, and listens to Rygdea breathe.

"You are," Rygdea says after a moment, and Rosch has no idea why that's cause for relief in his tone, but he's grateful, at least, that the agony in his voice has gone. "Say, I don't think I mentioned the time we thrashed one of your elite divisions in an exercise-"

Rosch drifts again, the cold and Rygdea's voice his constant companions, and then the bike shudders to a halt and Rygdea's voice rises, sharp. "Don't shoot! I'm coming in with Director Rosch! We need a medical team, _now_!"

There's some yelling, and then Rygdea sighs. "No, you idiots, and if it wasn't for the Phoenix Down I poured down his throat he'd be _dead_ right now. So let me forward and get the damn medical team!"

Rosch doesn't have the energy left to smile, but he wants to. And then there's more yelling, and the bike moves forward again, slower this time.

"Idiots," Rygdea mutters, and then there's noise, people rushing.

"Director Rosch!" someone exclaims, and Rygdea is talking again- "cussion, broken leg, I know he was bleeding internally before the Phoenix Down because he was coughing blood-" and then someone pries his eye open and shines a light in it, and a spear of pain stabs right through his entire skull.

He flinches away, making some kind of noise, and then Rygdea is there. "It's okay Rosch, the medical team is here. You're going to be okay-"

The medical team is here. Rygdea thinks it's going to be okay. That's good enough for him.

He fades out.


End file.
